Truth or Dare
by caradhwen
Summary: Her whole life was a lie...as of 17 Dec the last two chapters are now here.
1. Default Chapter

It was just as the Oracle had described; a house neither pretentious nor modest in the middle of an upscale neighbourhood, on a street where smiling young mothers pushed their strollers without fear past manicured yards. No graffiti, no outward decay, all freshly painted like the face of an underage but beautiful whore about to turn her first trick without shame. 

"Nice digs," remarked Cross. 

"Not too close," Trinity responded. They passed the house, turned around at the end of the street, doubled back and pulled the car over, leaving two houses between the one they watched and their position. 

"Cross, Angel, Strike. Stay low. Two people waiting will attract less attention than a carload." 

"This ain't gonna work," grumbled Angel. 

"It might," Neo countered from the driver's seat. 

"If it doesn't, we haul ass before the shit really hits the fan," Strike added dourly. 

"Incoming. Get down," Trinity snapped. A nondescript car passed. Not the one they were waiting for. It wouldn't be long. The woman they were seeking followed a predictable schedule. The Agent did not. 

Trinity reflected in spite of the rising adrenaline. How times had changed. In the few short years since Neo's defeat of the Agent programs, they had been totally reworked, rewritten. They were now virtually indistinguishable from the rest, except by their actions. Tough as hell to get a line on. Respectable members of the digital society. Less than a year ago one of them had damned near infiltrated Zion. Too real, too close. They were adapting to the threat of the Resistance, making it impossible to second-guess them. 

The one they were after now was in a league of his own, more cunning than his predecessors, formidable, far more dangerous than those who had come before him, though in many ways exactly like the rest. Just another subroutine, keeper of the peace, guardian of the master program; another illusion ensuring society that they were well-protected, valued. 

Farmed was the word that fit. Trinity and Neo wouldn't have much time to get through to this woman. If they were detected too soon, Neo would most likely go back alone, and it wouldn't matter anyway. 

"Here she comes," Neo whispered. Trinity breathed. The staccato clicks of the safeties being released on every gun forced an exponential rise in adrenaline and heightened her senses further. Trinity glanced at her watch. 4:45. They'd have half an hour if they weren't detected. Maybe. 

Neo studied the woman as she exited her car. Impeccably dressed in a dark gray tailored jacket. Short matching skirt. Nice legs. Close-cropped, stylish hair, medium brown. High cheekbones. Made-up but not overdone. Her perfume would be the sort that was there but barely detectable. Subtle, erotic. A model wife, a suitable ornament for the Agency. Not that her job there would ever net the Resistance one iota of useful information. Access denied. 

"Let's go," Trinity hissed. She reached into her pocket and released the safety on her gun, felt for the phone next to it, her anchor to the Real World. 

"Where are the kids?" Neo asked. 

"Shit," she muttered under her breath. The unexpected rarely meant anything in their favour. They'd have to talk even faster. 

The door had barely closed behind the woman when Neo knocked. She opened it again, smiling hesitantly. She was pretty. Innocent. Trinity steeled herself. 

"Hello, Celt. It's Trinity. This is Neo. It's been a long time. Do you remember me?" 

The woman's face drained of all colour. Neo was struck by her eyes, which were a pale green and now seemed the colour of mist, and fear. 

"I-I'm afraid you've got the wrong person." She was about to close the door on them. Trinity knew she wouldn't slam it. Too polite. The dignified wife of an Agent. 

"Gillian Smith?" Neo asked before the door obscured her from their view. She opened it only enough to see them, and to answer. 

"I don't speak to anyone online anymore, Trinity. Whoever you thought Celt was doesn't exist anymore." 

"Bullshit. We used to talk all the time, Celt. I came a long way to meet you." 

"Why?" 

"Let us in and we'll explain." 

"No. I don't expect you have much time at all. My husband will be here soon." Her eyes grew hard. "Come in then. You can't be here when he comes home, however." 

"No problem," Neo growled sarcastically. 

Trinity noted the details as they followed Gillian through the foyer. Hardwood floors, framed photos of the offspring. A place for everything. Domestic bliss. Gillian led them to a room that was obviously for display only. Tasteful gray carpeting, plush furniture, no sign of the passage of unruly children, and wide windows that overlooked the drive and the street beyond. A panoramic view of enemy territory. 

"What's this all about?" Gillian asked with no pretense of friendship, her eyes nervously darting to the windows and to the street beyond. 

"Your husband. Your life. The truth. Don't talk for a while. Just listen. You were getting close to the truth back in the days. Now it's time you knew what you're trapped with here." 

"How dare you-" 

"Just listen," Neo said, his voice and eyes so ominous that Gillian fell back from reproach and sank down onto a small divan. 

"Go on, then." She looked back at him with a vague air of superiority that she didn't feel. They both seemed too young, and too hip, though she was younger than they were. Their dark gazes and dark leather jackets made them seem impervious, and cold, as if they hid far more than she'd ever want to know. She grew cold. Neo began to speak. 

Trinity wavered between watching Gillian's ever-changing expressions and scrutinising the row of photographs on the glass table behind the couch upon which Gillian was perched. Agent Smith surrounded by colleagues. Children in various stages of missing teeth. No more real than a long-forgotten dream, though Gillian would most likely die for all three of them without hesitation. She'd die for nothing, for no-one. 

Neo managed to explain it all far faster and better than Trinity felt she ever could have. New was the living embodiment of the Unplugged, the One. He hadn't been easy to convince, either. And the Oracle had been dead-on about him in every sense of the word. She wouldn't be wrong this time, either. 

Gillian laughed when Neo fell silent. "You don't honestly expect me to believe any of this, do you? I've been married for ten years now, Trinity. Ten very happy years. I've given him two children. Now you're asking me to believe that they don't really exist? That none of this is real? How the hell did you find me, anyhow?" 

"It wasn't that hard. A lot of the others in a similar position as your own have realised something wasn't quite right. Most of them haven't been seen again. You're in the best position to help us." 

"And betray my own husband, and the Agency along with him? You're both mad." 

"Celt-" 

"Don't call me that! That was a long time ago, Trinity. When I came here from England, I was looking for a different life. It was one disaster after another. I could scarcely land a job, much less keep one for long. I was on drugs. I was lost. Then I met Owen, and everything changed. He got me in at the Agency, after I went through detox. He was there when no-one gave a damn. I won't help you betray him, I don't care what rival Agency sent you here., or who's backing you." 

"He's a program, Celt. Sooner or later you're going to understand that. None of this is real!" 

"You've no idea how hard he works, how hard they all work, to keep you safe, nor how dangerous it is-" 

"We know firsthand," Neo snarled. "We know how fast he'd blow us away if we gave him an opening." 

Gillian opened her mouth to order them both out of her house when Trinity's phone rang. "Agent," uttered Tank into her ear, from the Real World. Trinity snapped the phone off and grabbed Neo's arm. 

"He's coming. Let's go." Outside the shrieking of tires against pavement made Gillian jump. 

"Don't tell him what we discussed, if you don't want to get hurt," Neo warned over his shoulder as they fled, wrenching the door open, knocking over potted geraniums as they passed. Neo smacked the metal cylinders of windchimes out of his way as they leapt off the front porch and tore across the lawn. Another car was just coming around the corner, moving slowly. As Trinity and Neo dove into their car the approaching vehicle picked up speed. 

Trinity knelt on the passenger side seat, gun in hand, her other hand gripping the headrest as she looked back. The Agent exited his car and signalled toward the house. Gillian came running to collect her children. Trinity saw the Agent's gun already in hand just as the children's backs were turned. He had just reached the open door of his car when they sped around the corner. 

"Operator." 

"Tank, we need an exit fast. He's following." 

"Didn't want to shoot in front of the kiddies?" Strike sniggered from the back seat. 

"We're armoured. We got Neo. Fuck him," answered Angel. 

Tank's voice came crackling back, and Trinity gestured for them all to shut up. 

"Got one." 

"Where?" 

"Madison and Frontage." 

"That's too far!" 

"The only one left in that sector. You're way behind enemy lines. Haul ass. Don't forget Strike's arsenal. You can make it. Abandoned warehouse, end of the road. South entrance." 

"Got it." She relayed the directions to Neo. The Agent was right behind them now and already firing. The armour was holding thus far. 

"Bullets fly in surburbia," joked Angel. 

"They ain't seen nothin' yet," said Cross. 

"Partytime, Strike. Fire one up. Get ready, Neo. This is gonna be fun." 

Strike snickered and opened the briefcase on his lap. A lighted panel in the top displayed his wares. An array of all the latest toys currently in use against the Agent programs, most of them created by him. 

"Relay disruptor?" Cross suggested. 

"Nice choice." Strike selected one. His tech was all grade-A, and this series was unique; each device differed in modification, to prevent the Agent programs from adapting to the designs. When used in tandem with Neo's unique skills, they were unmatched. Sooner or later though, the Enemy would catch up. 

"Take the wheel," Neo said to Trinity, and closed his eyes to concentrate as soon as she did. They skidded before Trinity could gain control. 

"Jesus!" Angel cried. 

"Don't take the Lord's name-" 

"Shut up, Cross!" 

"Intersection! Now, Strike!" 

Strike twisted and hurled the device out the open window, hooking it back over his shoulder, and he hooted as it shattered against the Agent's windscreen. A passing bullet singed Strike's hand, and he crumpled in sudden agony. 

"Shit!" 

"I'm alright," Strike wheezed. Bullets pounded like hailstones against their back window. 

"It's not gonna hold much longer," yelled Angel. "It's starting to crack." 

Cross cheered. "Agent's losin' it. Cut off from the mainframe. Gonna be a big crash." 

They all opened fire, while Neo lent his skill, deepening the effect of the disruptor on the program in pursuit, gratified when he felt the loss of control from behind. He stomped on it then, knowing such defeat would only be temporary. The back window shattered. 

Neo floored it, running two red lights, causing a wreck as two cars attempting to make the yellow light in the next intersection were too late and collided head-on. The Agent's careening car smashed into them both. 

"Kick it!" Angel screeched. "We're gonna make it now!"   
  


Gillian herded the kids from the front yard to the table to the back yard, seeking one distraction after another to keep them occupied, quiet. At last Garrett stopped asking why Owen had left so abruptly and Amanda had stopped asking if Owen was coming home for dinner, and in despair she tucked her hands under her arms so neither of the children would see how they shook. 

Calmly she phoned several of the neighbors, and invited their children to come and play in the pool, even though it was far too cold. Garrett and Amanda seemed thoroughly satisfied with this strange good fortune and weren't about to question it, and Gillian simply cranked up the controls until the water was warm as a bath, and sat on a lawn chair watching until her own fear threatened to choke her and she felt as if she might vomit. Everything Neo and Trinity had said spun round and round in her head. The laughter of the children became shrill to her ears, mocking. She smiled reassuringly when Amanda caught her eye, and bit back tears.   
  


"Damn it," the Agent cursed. The warehouse was empty. The Matrix was empty of their presence. The disruptor had cost him the few seconds he'd needed. 

He filed away all he had learnt, ready for the next encounter. Bold, to have come that close, seeking him in his own arena. The sooner Zion was comprimised, the better. Once it was brought down the conflict would end and his true potential could at last be complete. Neo, he would shred personally. 

He moved with ease through the data stream, down the avenues of pure logic, past docking ports, negotiating the switches with cunning grace. In seconds home was before him, an exact replica of his destroyed car down to the contents of the glovebox parked in the drive. One of the neighbours watched him stroll toward the house, pretending to half-heartedly rake at a pile of leaves. The Agent from behind his shades was inscrutable as always, and halted, nodding acknowledgment with a vague menace, and the neighbour looked away, quailed. It was too easy most of the time. 

Gillian met him at the door, her physiology indicating she neared hysteria. Calmly he inquired what the unwelcome guests had been doing here, and dutifully she told him everything. He admired the manner in which she swiftly regained her composure, such emotional grounding due largely in part to his own influence over her. He despised weakness, though many of her weaknesses he enjoyed thoroughly, and would exploit each at his convenience once night fell, and in so doing drive every doubt from her mind. 

He held her as she wished, reassuring her that she had done what was best by telling him everything, and comforted her with the knowledge that Trinity and her associates had not been harmed, but only taken in for questioning and then released, and told her that he had not been harmed in apprehending them. Her ceaseless questioning grated at him, yet her devotion and loyalty reached him as they sometimes did in a surreal sort of way, as if he momentarily wished to be all that she thought he was. 

When the house was quiet and darkness complete she was his to manipulate, though nearly all his mental processes he devoted to Neo and Trinity and how they might attempt to contact Gillian again. Gillian was in a low-level and expendable position at the Agency. The Resistance must be getting desperate. The Agent sorted and categorised all he knew of Neo as Gillian writhed beneath him, powerless to his technique, and he drove any chance of rebellion from her. She could not possibly comprehend in her state the processing now taking place within. From her point of view he was just as into it as she was. 

Neo. Every previous encounter with him was cached away in high memory. He accessed all related data, seeking some detail previously scanted. At length the search was relegated and he gave in to what was before him. The new programming allowed for the entire spectrum of experience, not that his race was lacking, nor did they seek to follow humanity down the road that had led to their own doom. It was merely a matter of reaping their own harvest. Still, many of the Agent programs had been taken offline for sybaritic tendencies, and failsafes had been installed. 

Such would not be his fate. He had it under control. This was one of the few ways Gillian could serve him. Her kind had only one real use, and they now fulfilled that role to the breadth of their capacity. 

Her movements became more kinetics as he became more forceful, the lending of fear making it more interesting than usual. Humans had been parasites, an infestation now well under control; still he fed off her in a fascinating reversal of roles. In the end they both got what they wanted. 


	2. Chapter Two

She watched him sleep for what seemed a long while, intent on slipping away downstairs. His breathing remained unchanged; steady, peaceful, untroubled. Satisfied. She nearly sighed. How many nights had that softest of sounds been the backdrop for all her dreams? 

Not tonight. Tonight it had reached into her nightmares like the sinister approach of a poisonous snake. She couldn't dislodge from her mind the look on his face when Trinity and Neo had driven off; the efficient way he had moved, the smug ease with which the gun had rested in his hand, waiting. 

She knew he had lied to her. He'd known who they were, known they were here before he'd ever come round the corner. Why the gun if he only wanted to question them? Had he allowed them to come here, stayed clear long enough to let them tell their tale before moving on them? Let them remain long enough to fill her mind with images so horrific she was afraid to close her eyes? Was she meant to hear it all, only to be tested later by him, her loyalty then proven? 

She shook her head. It was all madness. Yet she lingered beside the bed. He certainly hadn't behaved like someone with something to hide. If anything, it had been better than ever. She refused to even entertain the thought. It was all the release of adrenaline after the pursuit that had made him so...needful. 

She padded off silently, peeking into the kid's rooms. Garrett was snoring softly with his mouth open. Only tufts of Amanda's hair were visible from beneath her blue bedspread. All was well. The wind was whipping the branches outside against the window. Gillian stood stock still, counting the length of the silence between. It was exactly six seconds each time, six seconds between the sound of the branches screeching against the glass and the next gust of wind, and the branches again... 

She closed her eyes. It was only her own wish to prove Neo and Trinity weren't completely psychotic. She had subconsciously sped up or slowed her internal counting in order to will it to be six seconds. People were flawed, incapable of the precision they had come to expect from the machines they created. 

She let out a long held breath and left her daughter to the peace of dreams, and went downstairs. She moved easily through the house in the dark, her domain, her whole world. In the kitchen she considered heating water for tea, and changed her mind just as quickly. She was drawn to the window. Amanda's art was backlit by the neighbour's outdoor lighting; autumn leaves captured between sheets of wax paper, taped to the glass. 

From there she was led away by the sound of the windchimes, the chimes Neo had run into. She opened the front door, and the wind encircled her like the breath of some alien will. Quickly she retrieved broom and dustpan from the kitchen, and went outside again, righting the potted plants Neo and Trinity had knocked over, sweeping up the dirt. There now. Everything as it was before they'd come. As if they'd never come. Perhaps they hadn't. 

She closed the door and locked it, though no-one was fool enough to attempt breaking in on an Agent's personal space. Were they? Into the darkened living room she went, as she had known she would. There was little feeling here, no lingering scent of life. It was sterile, little-used, except when entertaining guests deemed important enough to be allowed access. She'd always loved this room. Now it seemed like a very comfortable dungeon. 

Absently she picked up one of the framed photographs on the glass table, and settled in the same place she had so stiffly sat when Neo had spilled his guts to her this afternoon. The windchimes tinkled. One high note, two lower. Again, and again. She grew rigid, listening so intently she dropped the picture, her fingernails sinking into the fabric of the sofa. 

The pattern of the chiming was unchanged. Perhaps the Master Programmed had taken the minutiae offline in order to see to the more pressing details of the illusions of night in the city; murders and rapes and arrest took precedence over windchimes in the sleeping suburbs, after all. 

"Stop it, you idiot," she hissed at herself. Still, she listened sharply. The pattern of the chimes changed, caroling merrily as the wind picked up, and she sighed with relief. She picked up the photo once more, running one hand over the glass. Owen had honest eyes, even in a photograph, even in the dark. How could she ever even have considered it? 

Neo's story defied imagination. Gillian felt the first welling of contempt for him, and for Trinity. How dare they come here and tell her that her own children were an illusion? That she herself floated in some tank, oblivious to the digital life some artificial intelligence was allowing her to live? Neo and Trinity represented the world she'd left behind. There was no way she'd go back. Always hungry, always in need, always on the edge. And always a cause, a conspiracy looming. 

That was how she'd first met Trinity, online, discussing such things. At one of the better jobs she'd had, at a cyber cafe near Covent Gardens. She'd had cocaine under control then. Recreational use only. Her own flat, a decent wardrobe. A passable computer. Nothing to compare to all she had now. 

On her breaks, there were always messages waiting from Trinity. At home came the long emails about all that was wrong with the world, and then the all night conversations began, first online and then by phone, discussions that began to hint at what Trinity perceived to be the truth, along with Gillian's own experimentation with other pharmaceuticals when cocaine began to bore rather than satisfy. Gillian had begun to believe. Hadn't she always felt something was not quite right with the world? Wasn't someone or something responsible? 

She was sacked from that job as well. Too many late arrivals and hangovers. Again. After a quick score and a brief time selling, she'd netted enough for plane fare to the states, and from there it was back to getting high and working only enough to make rent before it all fell apart. And then came Owen, right on cue, and she felt like someone again, and after rehab she felt life returning, and all that was wrong Owen could easily fix, and did. She was someone, finally, and Trinity faded into memories of a time when Gillian had been about to self-destruct for no good reason. Owen had shown her a future, and she was all too happy to take what he offered. 

It was so much easier to let someone else do all the thinking, make all the decisions. Right on cue once again, Owen appeared in the living room now, disheveled from sleep but composed as always, and he sat down beside her. She felt her sense of safety returning, felt the surreal coldness of the previous day finally loosen its grip. 

"Still disturbed by what they told you?" Owen asked, his arm going around her. 

"I was. Not anymore. Not now that you're here. I didn't want to wake you, so I came down here." 

"Nightmares?" 

"Yeah." 

"Understandable." 

"Nothing they said is even remotely believable." It's far too horrifying to be true." 

"That's what they said when the Jews were being herded into cattle cars," the Agent thought. "Their punishment will be far more severe if they come near you again, Gillian." 

"They won't." 

"Sociopaths. Every society has its fringe element. Neo and Trinity and their ilk happen to be ours." 

"You've dealt with Neo before, haven't you?" 

"Yes, I have. He's a known criminal, Gillian. A terrorist. The sooner he faces justice, the better for society." 

"The Agency didn't really release him, did they?" 

"No. He's a dangerous man, Gillian. Until he answers all our questions he'll be detained. He won't be harmed. He'll eventually co-operate or face charges. He's evaded capture more than once. It's for his protection as much as ours." 

So, he had lied. She understood why now. Still she couldn't quite name the pang of emotion she felt. Trinity seemed to trust Neo utterly. Like he was all that mattered. As if she loved him. 

"I'm sorry I lied, Gillian." 

"It's okay. I know you can't tell me everything. I prefer it that way. It's your job, and you're damned good at it. Let's leave it at that." 

The Agent smiled. He was unique among his kind, programmed for leadership, autonomy, decision-making. Nothing had been spared. All the routines specific to Gillian were active, waiting. He took control as only he could, knowing his skills would soon strip her of all but one thought. He could make her forget her own name. It was a simple matter to outperform even her lofty expectations. Sometimes it seemed nothing was out of reach. 

Yet Neo had slipped from his grasp once again. Gillian had no clue what it was that drove him now, thinking it was her alone, and so he let her believe it, forcing her back, obliterating her sense of self until she gasped something unintelligible, asking for something he did not trouble himself to discern. Mercy, perhaps. Or more. What difference did it make? He gave heed only to his own internal machinations, plotting his next move, both against the Enemy and against her. Many of the earlier Agent programs had found their labours here quite unbearable. Such was not the case with him, or with any of the newer designs. 

Gillian was already bugged, yet the technology had improved vastly since, and it was beneficial to be certain. There was no lapse in the way he moved, and her eyes were still closed. He reached into the inner pocket of the robe still draped over his shoulders and withdrew a small vial. Through him the device within was activated, and he uploaded an intricate series of commands, fine tuning its core database, adding a few essentials, personalising the programming. When it was done he covered her mouth with his free hand so no-one would hear her screaming when it was freed from the vial and he released, sending it on its way to journey into her ear canal. It was tiny, very like an insect once prevalent on this world, its design and appearance in many aspects the same as the parasite once called an earwig. This version was far more useful than the original. 

Her agonised shrieking became throaty as the device found its target, yet he kept his hand clamped over her mouth far longer than necessary. By the time she went limp he was intensely gratified in every sense of the word. He actually needed her now. As bait.   
  


Gillian woke in her own bed with a raging headache. Lack of sleep from all the fooling around. She smiled. It was worth it. 

Owen was unnaturally quiet, watchful. Several aspirins and a shower later she managed to get the children off to school and herself ready for work. She came back downstairs to find him waiting for her. Her head still ached with a vengeance, and she'd no memory of leaving the living room. He was usually gone long before now. 

He smiled slightly, regarding her. "I'll take you to work," he offered. 

"Am I under surveillance?" she quipped noncommittally, regretting it immediately. Her face grew ashen. His stony silence answered her question in the coldest of ways. She was struck by the difference between last night and now. She'd felt he was all she wanted then, and now it seemed as though he held her in contempt. 

"It's only a precaution," he finally replied. 

"I never invited them here, Owen," she snapped. 

"I'm aware of that. However, it's likely they may try to contact you again." 

"Why?" 

"Because they never give up. Because they see something about you they perceive will give them some sort of advantage. They want a victim, someone on the inside, someone they can manipulate, use. They'd be only to happy to see you fall as long as they could get to us." 

Gillian snorted. "I'm hardly part of the inner circle." 

"I know that. So do they." 

She couldn't understand why she felt hurt by this. Maybe it was just the headache. She was tired, tired already of the turmoil Neo and Trinity had brought, the emotional wreckage they'd left behind. 

She tried another tack. "I'm sorry, Owen. You seem a little far away this morning. After last night, I just thought-" 

He reached for her. "It's for your protection, Gillian. Trust me." He deepened his hold, both on her and on the implant she now carried. If Neo and Trinity attempted contact again, it would backfire on them in the most delightful way. And if attempted to betray him, she would know pain unlike any she'd ever experienced. He smoothed her hair in an almost fatherly way, mumbling meaningless words of concern, telling her that he only wanted to keep her safe. She grew lax, languid, the symbiosis between her thoughts and the implant seamless now, as his own interface with the device. She rested against him a moment longer. He could easily linger here and amuse himself with her all day, but decided against it. Hedonism was a trap he was not bound for. Such had brought Gillian's civilisation to its knees. His would not fall so easily to petty pleasures. There was so much yet to accomplish before they could rest on their laurels as humanity had once done.   
  


The rest of the morning went far more smoothly; the headache diminished until it was manageable, and work kept her mind clear and her thoughts occupied. By eleven the headache seemed gone altogether. Gillian found her first chance then to check her personal messages. Usually they were only from co-workers, interoffice matters that contained no sensitive information. This morning there were two such messages, both concerning an afternoon meeting of the clerical pool. The next was from Owen, asking if she would have lunch with him. She smiled, and her eyes grew bright as she read on; he'd written something extra about the night before, and hadn't even bothered to use encryption. He trusted her after all. She composed a reply, her face burning, writing something equally explicit before she lost her nerve. Hopefully no-one would be reading over his shoulder. She'd nothing to fear there; he was given a wide berth by most. 

She deleted his message straightaway, just to be sure, and went on to the last, noting with annoyance that there was no return address, no protocol, no username.   
  


We need to talk, Celt. Someone will be waiting to meet you at 12:30 at 

the corner of Monument and James. You'll know him when you see him. 

He knows more than you can guess. Go with him. You can trust him, and 

me. I can prove everything Neo and I told you, if you'll just let me. Free 

your mind to the possibility. You're living a lie. If you can't meet the one 

coming to speak to you, I'll message you again soon. I'm taking a big risk 

reaching out to you here, Celt. 

  
  


There was more, but the screen went blank before she could read the rest. It scarcely mattered; pain had erupted in her head so fiercely she could barely gasp. 

The Agent watched her crumble, no longer poised, her head cradled in her hands. He let her writhe for a long moment before enacting the cure, before transmitting the code that would still what ravaged her mind. Over the walls of her semi-private cubicle he peered shrewdly. In the adjacent cubicle another low-level employee attempted to watch this strange, brief drama play out, until the Agent warded him off with only the slightest inclination of his head to show he wished no interference. The other scrambled away, deferring to his authority. Agents were rarely called upon to descend here to the levels of the mundane. He clenched one fist, releasing it again before moving toward her. 

Gillian was growing visibly calmer, though she still held her head between her hands weakly. The Agent regarded the blank screen of her terminal with undisguised malice, all that had been displayed there snatched away and stowed within by him. A daring move on the part of the Resistance which would net the Agency something of real value. As a reward for her usefulness, the Agent further diminished the implant's activity in her cerebral cortex. Humans were always strangely placid after the surcease of agony, and Gillian proved to be no different. 

The very fact that the Enemy had gotten a message through to this most guarded of strongholds rankled. Still, the Agent was solicitous, and inquired whether Gillian was ill and needed medical attention. She declined, and he moved closer. He enjoyed watching her, though he seethed unseen at the Enemy's coup. She drew only strength from him, and he was patient as her vital signs stabilised. 

He allowed her to lean against him as he accessed the implant once again, and ordered her to compose a reply, feeding her the words, supplying the return address that he had taken during the screen dump. Her pain had abated fully, and she was compliant. When she had done as he asked, he escorted her from the Agency complex.   
  


From within the Lair, Trinity paced anxiously. It was nearly 12:00. As a general rule, they'd refrained from freeing a mind after it had reached a certain age; the mind rebelled against the truth, recoiled from all that comprised the Real World and often struck back. Trinity thought briefly of Cypher. Gillian would be dangerous because of the children she thought she had, and the husband she believed she loved. 

Trinity winced at this, both with contempt and pity, remembering vividly everything she had seen in Gillian's house; all the steady signs of family, and the dark underbelly of the lie far more clearly visible, palpable as a living being in every corner. Gillian truly believed she had something to lose, when in fact everything had been denied her from day one. She and Neo had been far closer in getting through to Gillian than even Gillian yet knew. Gillian had agreed to meet Morpheus. It was a beginning, a place to start. 

The mood was sober among all who gathered in the Lair now, and many were wary and untrusting, and thought Gillian had agreed too easily. 

"Maybe I was wrong about her," Trinity said softly. 

"A few people thought you were wrong about me, too," Neo answered, his hand on her shoulder. 

Trinity sighed gravely, relaxing only slightly. The Lair was Neo's creation, his handiwork; a safe place within the Matrix where the Unplugged could meet and share information. Though it was nothing more than a hiccup in the hardline, it hadn't been detected, or breached thus far. They trusted Neo with their lives. All of them. 

Trinity hoped she hadn't betrayed that trust now. She and Neo had more to lose than ever before. 

"She's bugged," said Strike, interrupting their private thoughts. "Bugged, and more. She's approaching Morpheus' position already." 

"Now?" 

"Yep. The Agenct did us a favour in a way; we can track her, get all the details: lifesigns, proximity to an Agent, even DNA sequencing." 

Neither Trinity or Neo was comforted by this. "Glad you're on our side," Neo said darkly, though he smiled. 

"Why so early?" Trinity wondered out loud. "It's only ten after." 

"Scared, probably. Afraid she'll lose her nerve." 

"Or her ass. He'll be watching every move." 

"Should we abort?" 

Trinity pulled her phone out and dialed. "Morpheus. She's coming. Just around the corner. Get ready. We think it might be a trap." 

"Acknowledged." 

Trinity nodded brusquely at Strike. Pirating a call from here was risky business. She had half a mind to order them all back to the ship, yet she knew they wouldn't go. Morpheus meant too much to them all, and they'd do what they could from here.   
  


Morpheus leaned nonchalantly in the doorway of an auto repair shop. His exit was near, still his nerves sang. He watched the entrenched pass by; the hapless and the hopelessly programmed. Any one of them could be an Agent. The Agent programs were now so fully integrated into the mix that they moved on every level. It was hard as hell to differentiate them from the masses. They had drawn too much notice in the past. Now they lurked at will, each slightly different than its counterparts. The Agent the woman he waited for was involved with was one of the exceptions, and had on more than one occasion flouted his identity, careless of the havoc he wrought. He was also exceptionally more deadly than his comrades. The new Agents had dealt the Resistance several serious blows and one near fatal recently. 

Still hope remained in their greatest flaw. Human adaptability and ingenuity had been grossly underestimated, and the Resistance had made strides. Today they would know just how much they had gained. 

In spite of his non-threatening posture, many still stared as they passed him. Morpheus scrutinised each and every one, with caution, and with pity. Somewhere in the crowd could be the next to be freed, the next join the fight. Any of them could also be studying him with more than a passing interest. 

Gillian Smith approached, coming into view, nervously scanning the crowded sidewalks for any sign of who it was who waited. Morpheus slowly lifted a hand when her frenetic gaze moved his way, and he ambled forward slightly. A mechanic lounged in the doorway Morpheus had vacated, lazily drawing on a cigarette. 

"A little extracirricular activity?" the mechanic drolled with a smirk. Morpheus ignored him, his hands jammed down into the pockets of his black trenchcoat. His gun was a cold comfort against his fingers, a reminder of all he stood to lose every time he entered the Matrix. Gillian slowed her approach, visibly terrified. 

"Mrs. Smith?" he asked when she drew close enough. She nodded tersely, closing the distance hesitantly. Morpheus could feel her fear. She clutched at her handbag as though salvation lay within, as if it would keep her firmly rooted in reality. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

"Let's take a walk." Morpheus wanted the mechanic out of earshot. She seemed willing to follow, and they ducked into the alley behind the repair shop. His exit was only feet away now. Atop one of the trash bins, an old orange tomcat with watery green eyes watched them with disinterest. 

"I don't have much time," Gillian stammered. "He'll come looking for me." 

"I know. I can take you to a place where we can speak freely." 

"Is Trinity there?" 

"Yes. I'm asking you to trust me, Mrs. Smith, and Trinity. Can you do that?" 

Gillian swallowed hard. Morpheus thought she was about to cry. 

"Take my hand." A beat passed before he grasped her trembling fingers and drew her onward. The cat leapt from its cold perch and strolled away, turning once to watch the retreating forms of the man and woman. Morpheus made his call and waited. At the end of the alley was a battered old phone booth. The phone rang discordantly, almost immediately after Tank had rung off. 

"I'll go first. As soon as the phone rings again, pick it up." She nodded bleakly. Morpheus felt the ominous restriction in his chest, the warning that would not be silenced until she was through and it was known she was not an Agent.   
  


The Agent swaggered with a lazy confidence into the place Gillian had chosen, silently maligning those who scuttled out of his way. Gillian had always been rather proud of the treatment they received in places such as these. He would not see her disappointed today. Predictability was control. Control was dominion. Every moment was bound by the parametres, the steadfast logic which governed all, the pure mathematics from whence all creation now sprang, itself untouched by the lesser evils, unstained by the detritus left behind. 

It mattered little where control was enacted. The stronger they built the parametres, the deeper their authority, and illusion became unquestioned reality. Humans were now so dependent on the system they would die to keep it whole. That was the driving force upon which all was constructed. Nothing mattered but the energy source and the continued propagation of his kind. 

And so he endured with good humour banal rituals such as taking Gillian out for a meal for the sake of the truth, unhindered by the necessity such illusory ventures demanded. Sentience had its benefits. He had learnt to adapt, and took whatever he wished from such experiences. There was always some new information waiting to be gathered, deciphered, hidden away for future reference; a base and almost reckless input and output, an interplay within the Matrix that was manufactured by both those who called it life and those who maintained it. He had been forced to admit to himself more than once the manner in which he savoured his time here, particularly those when he was alone with her. She could easily distract him, if he were ever to allow it. Sometimes he nearly did for the sake of the experience alone. 

They were seated in a quiet corner, ushered there by a genuflecting member of the staff. The Agent had been warned by his superiors on more than one occasion that he was to appear more neutral in public, to blend in. He rarely followed the commands of others. For this he was programmed, and even his superiors were well aware he was a wrench in the machine. He would alter nothing of his own consciousness unless duty required it. He had infiltrated the upper echelon of Zion once; he was too valuable to risk, and such would not be asked of him. 

When he and Gillian were left in peace, the Agent plied her with words of concern over her health, spoke meaningless paragraphs regarding the offspring, his tone sombre and his voice deep and smooth, wishing to convey emotion. His eyes from behind the dark glasses were impervious, though she would not see this, but only what the Matrix told her was there. 

She seemed receptive to all he said, though her face was still pale and her eyes still bore the traces of earlier pain. As long as she complied, she would experience so more such pain. If she did not...   
  


Gillian smiled back at him tensely. He'd lied twice to her in twenty-four hours. Lied about taking Trinity and Neo into custody, lied about releasing them. Where were they now, that they could have gotten a message through to the impassable fortress that was the Agency? 

"What is it, darling?" the Agent inquired. Gillian stared back. Her sense of safety had fled altogether now, and the reflection of her face in his dark glasses showed it. Nearby a waiter was setting a table clumsily. Flatware bundled in a linen napkin tumbled from his grasp. Gillian's throat closed at the sound, so like the windchimes she had been so certain were not right the night before, their exactly patterned sound, repeated, so perfect, too perfect. 

"Gillian?" 

She'd read about Neo in the papers. About Morpheus. What was Owen's connection to them? She drew a breath, her hands clenched in violent fear on her knees beneath the table, out of his sight. Or were they? Could he see more than she'd ever want, so much that there would be nowhere to run? 

She nearly gasped when their food was brought to the table, startled at the interruption, at the detour of her thoughts and what she'd been about to ask. It would be safer to ask it here, in a public place. But safer for whom? She picked at her plate, avoiding his gaze. He'd taken the damnable glasses off. It seemed somehow worse when he did. She'd always wished he'd stop wearing them everywhere; now all she wanted was for him to put them back on. 

"I should have taken you to the doctor instead of bringing you here," he said in a way that sounded hollow to her hearing. 

"No, it's alright. I'm fine." 

He finessed his response. "You haven't touched your lunch. I'll arrange for you to take the rest of the day off. I'll see to Garrett and Amanda." He leaned forward slightly to show he cared, his expression almost committed. 

"What is the Matrix, Owen? Can you tell me? Will you?" 

At first he said nothing, slowly reaching for the dark glasses, his disguise and at the same time his badge of office. The new program specifications prohibited outward public displays of authority, limiting such to the necessary. He'd bent those specs pursuing Neo the previous day. The question Gillian posed hardly fell under the category of necessary force. Still he was tempted. He merely accessed the cortical implant, and her neural activity began once again to increase, though not at a level that would cause disruption in the flow of events here. Only a woman with a migraine. No need for a scene. 

"I don't know. Probably something concocted by Neo and Trinity to explain why they can't live under the law like everyone else." He uploaded several commands, creating gaps in her short-term memory that she would attribute later to fatigue. He watched. Her face grew slack as if she'd quite forgotten what they were talking about. And so she had. 

He let the pain grip her a moment longer before quelling it. Her relief was evident, and she smiled at him as she'd always done, with implicit trust. His to claim once again. 

"Feeling better?" 

"Much," she purred, pausing. "What were you saying?" 

"Try the wine. It's really very good." She did as he asked, agreeing with him affably, and he allowed himself to flash her a smile in return.   
  


Strike stood ready, poised with the device he'd created, similar in appearance to that used to remove bugs, extract them from those unwillingly poisoned by them. This device could perform that function, but that wasn't it's primary purpose. It's real use would be put to the test in seconds, for the first time. They'd either gain an informant or make their first real capture. If they did the latter dissection could begin. 

The hairs on the back of Strike's neck were raised when Morpheus came through first. All around Strike the others were positioned, guns cocked and waiting. They could exit immediately, but these were old friends, and valued crew members from some of the most important hovercrafts and heavy cruisers in the fleet. To lose any of them would be a crushing blow. 

"She just picked up the phone," Angel announced. 

"Bring her through," Morpheus answered. Neo questioned Morpheus with his eyes. The Agents had learnt a lot of new tricks. Morpheus shook his head to say he wasn't sure. Strike's hackles rose in earnest then. 

As soon as she was through, Strike fired. If she was Gillian, she wouldn't be seriously hurt, though the bug she carried would be activated in a pretty painful way before being sucked forcibly from her body. The older technology required that such debugging be done at closer range, the extractor barrel held against the individual, usually allowing the bug to be retrieved from the abdomen through the cavity of the belly button. This wasn't the case with Strike's creation. He'd take all the blame if it failed now. 

The woman at first shrank back in fear, until the programming took control. Whoever this had been before they'd been chosen host wasn't Gillian Smith. Another advance by the Enemy. In less time than it took to blink the Agent was there, and just as quickly reduced to pure data and trapped within the waiting cylinder attached to the bottom of the device. 

Strike set it down carefully when the Agent was within. The field was holding. Some of the others cheered and whooped. Strike rubbed his shoulder. 

"Damned thing gets heavy." 

"212 Agent Series," said Cross. 

"Jones," Angel added. 

"Welcome to the Lair, you bastard. Hope you find the accomodations satisfactory. Check out time is whenever we say." Strike spat viciously. 

Cross hooted, flipping his middle finger in the direction of the cylinder. "Too bad it wasn't Smith." 

"Settle down," said Neo. "We'll have to abandon the Lair for now. The Agent left a trace program in his wake. This pocket will be overrun in seconds. Let's go." 

"We got work to do anyway," said Strike, putting his two cents in before they departed and Neo took the Lair offline. 


	3. Chapter Three

The Resistance had struck it's most recent blow since the coming of Neo against the Agency. The hardline hadn't been severed swiftly enough to retrieve the Agent now in enemy hands. They had tried without success to deactivate the Agent, but that too had proved futile; neither could they receive any data from the captured program. It was of a lesser design; still Smith and his colleagues could face a serious setback if the Resistance somehow managed to hack into the captured Agent's core memory. An Agent could move in and out of any software hardwired to the system. 

Smith refused to contemplate such an odious possibility. Human logic was flawed; their inherent weaknesses would avail the Agency as they had always done. The Resistance had made strides. The Agency would simply redouble their efforts as they had done in the past and regain what had been taken. Regain, or destroy. Either way the Enemy would be left with nothing. 

Smith surmised several ways in which he might accomplish this. The most appealing of these plans would take time, which he had in abundance, and would expend a personal resource. He was willing to make the sacrifice. Anything to see Neo and Trinity and Morpheus dead at last. They had gravely underestimated the knowledge and ability the Agency and his entire race possessed. It was this most of all that would ensure success.   
  


Gillian moved through her days in a numb sort of fog, though no-one seemed to notice it but her. She knew Owen was feeding her mood stabilisers somehow, though she had no proof. A simple doctor's visit and a blood test could confirm it. Why bother? Owen would only force the situation in his favour by coercing the doctor to lie or altering the test results himself. It didn't really seem to matter all that much. Owen wasn't going to allow anyone or anything to supplant his authority or subvert his aims. She was only another obstacle, though she'd been vigilant in making herself seem agreeable, and passive, and content. Nothing was amiss at home. Nothing but her own internal life which was in such turmoil that she balked at her own thoughts, rejected her own emotions rather than risking madness. 

Owen had been affectionate, more so than ever, and this both drew and repelled her, deepening her confusion. Part of the plan? He was just as she'd always wanted him to be now. It was this which terrified her most of all. 

She'd screwed up everything she'd ever touched before he'd come into her life. Maybe she was just willing it all to failure because she expected it. Setting herself up to fall. It was Garrett and Amanda who kept her from fleeing, from seeking a distant place where she could hide, and think it through. Even if she were childless, she'd never manage it anyhow. He'd simply find her. 

Gillian encountered daily some sign of Trinity and Neo's presence, and often saw them passing on the street, in the grocery, near the kid's school, idling as if waiting for their own children. She longed to speak to them, too afraid to draw Owen's notice. He was rarely home with some internal crisis brewing at the Agency, yet she was ever mindful of just how quickly he could be near if he'd a mind to. 

So she bided her time, and went about her business. She performed at work with more diligence than ever, and gave the performance of her career at home, daily, and by the time she closed her eyes she was utterly drained. She feigned whatever she perceived he wanted to see and hear, catered to his momentary whims, and no-one was the wiser, herself least of all, as far as she was concerned.   
  


Strike had commandeered nearly an entire deck of the Epiphany and a good part of its crew in the monumental effort of dissecting the Agent program. He felt only a little closer to understanding the programming than he did at the beginning, and spirits were sagging, except for his and Tank's. They loved this shit, lived for it. If they could pull off what he was hoping it wouldn't matter if he tore apart the design of the Agent piece by piece. He already had every bit of relevant information, every routine on hard copy and stored in the ship's memory. They might have to wait until later to fully study the inner workings. The mission took precedence. In time they might even be able to construct their own Agents and wreak some real havoc in the Matrix. Thus far the containment field had held beautifully, and Tank and Strike cooked up an idea, exuberant when they finally approached Morpheus and ran their idea past him. 

The main deck was quiet. They were near broadcast depth. Zion was on highest alert, and there was nearly no communications being sent or received. The state of alert was due in large part to the treacherous cargo now aboard the Epiphany. If the Agent were somehow loosed and accessed Zion's mainframe, all they had suffered for the sake of freedom could be a footnote in a history no-one would ever know of. 

Morpheus considered it. "It's dangerous. If they realised too soon-" 

"We know. We know she might be killed, too." 

"She'll have to be given the choice." 

"Then we risk her telling the Agent." 

"This is true. Either way it's a risk. Truth or dare." 

"Think Trinity would be willing to be the messenger?" 

"You'll have to ask her." 

"A little proof would go a long way in the convincing department," said Tank. 

"Neo and Trinity and Strike could handle that end of it." 

"The Oracle said it would come to this. She said 'one from the fields would take the chance.' She never said whether that one would succeed or fail, though." 

"Or give us to the Enemy." 

"It's a chance worth taking." Morpheus didn't add the words "what have we got to lose?" The answer was everything. Still those unspoken words hung between himself, Strike and Tank, and seemed to permeate the already stale and canned air they breathed. 

Trinity entered moments later and settled next to Morpheus for her shift, raising an eyebrow at the Strike and Tank. The news from Zion, what little there was, was both hopeful and disturbing. They were all praying that Strike would somehow find a way, and fearful that the Agent would break free and get to them first, strike at their very heart. Trinity cocked her head. Tank was a little too jubilant. 

"You up to a challenge?" Strike asked her. 

"Always."   
  


Sundays had become a sort of living hell for Gillian. The kids seemed more unruly than usual, more determined to impress Owen and capture his undivided attention. It was their one day with him, unless he was called away. Gillian was content now to leave them to him, yet it never seemed to work out that way, and she felt his eyes on her wherever she was in the house; following her, seeking entry into her thoughts. She managed to smile seductively at him whenever she caught him watching her, as if she welcomed his attentions, when in fact she felt strangled by them as if every glance tightened an invisible noose around her neck. If she slipped even once, the chair would be kicked out from under her. 

She'd begun to develop an immunity to the mood stabilisers, or to whatever form of control he was using, and the struggle to appear as nonplussed as she'd been before Neo and Trinity had come to her door became her daily battle. 

How she wished she could somehow just ask Owen about everything and receive honest answers in return. A large chunk of her heart still clung to all they had shared and all she believed he meant to her. She couldn't seem to let it go, no matter what truth waited out there, no matter what war was being waged unseen. They could've devised no better weapon than her own heart to use against her. In this respect she felt she fought on the front lines. Against herself. 

She yearned for the truth now as she had once yearned for him. Maybe the truth was no further than her front door. That afternoon, she took the kids to the park; they were restless and argumentative, and Owen was reading peacefully. There was a roast waiting to be cooked in the oven. He seemed grateful when she bundled the kids up, intent on hustling them off, and she kissed him goodbye.   
  


Trinity moved into position, stationing herself behind a restroom made to look as if it was fashioned from stones. Very quaint. Gillian trundled along soon enough, the kids in tow, scarved against the cold wind that had stripped away the remainder of autumn. Another simulated season beginning. For a few tense moments she watched, until Gillian was approachable. 

Gillian settled on a cold wooden bench. There were few others here, yet Amanda had already made a new friend, and they were chattering amiably atop the ladder that led to the slide. Garrett was sullenly kicking at the bark that covered the breadth of the play area. Gillian knew he'd rather be home with Owen. Garrett would sooner or later put up a wall to guard himself against Owen's emotional distance. Still, her heart was rendered by the look on Garrett's face. He would be too old to come here soon. Perhaps he already was. 

"Hello, Celt," said Trinity, and sat down beside Gillian, hands hidden away in the pockets of her black leather jacket. Gillian looked her way. 

"That jacket doesn't look very warm," she remarked. 

"It isn't. I'm used to being cold." 

"And hungry, I'll bet." 

"Yeah. That too. It's all part of the deal." 

"Freedom." 

"That's right. Sacrifices have to be made." 

Gillian stared absently at Garrett. "Trinity, what's happening to me?" 

"You're beginning to see the truth. Beginning to see the world here as it really is." 

"Fake." 

Trinity nodded. Gillian had never seen eyes so blue. There was nothing hidden in them. Nothing but stark reality. It occured to Gillian that if cold had its very own hue it would be the same shade as Trinity's eyes. 

"Am I real?" 

"Yes, and no. I can show you, Celt. We don't have much time. We need your help." 

Gillian looked away, then turned back. "Then you just add the chicken and you're done," she said in a saccharine way. Garrett stood in front of them watchfully. 

"Hadn't we better go?" he asked sagely. "Its too cold to mess around out here. Dad said he'd take me to the arcade at the mall after dinner." 

Gillian knew Trinity grimaced at this, but kept her cool. What was she going to do now? Garrett was peering at them in a canny way Gillian had never seen before, and her heart felt like a block of ice about to shatter. 

"I was just sharing a recipe with Terry here." 

Trinity's phone was already to her ear. "Now, Neo." As soon as Neo acknowledged her clipped request, Trinity rose and took Gillian's arm with all the gentleness she could muster. It wasn't going to be easy. 

Gillian gaped at the first sign, her mind unwilling to grasp it. Neo's skill was brought to bear, and life began to slow, and then to crawl, until it seemed to cease altogether. Nothing moved, not even the air seemed stirred by her exhalations. Tears found their way down her cheeks, though such movement was too minute to fathom. Somehow she had stepped outside the borders of reality, or been dragged there. She rose, waiting for the ground to melt away beneath her feet and reveal nothingness. She reached for Garrett, his eyes and face like stone. 

"Oh, God, is he dead?" she wheezed, pain knifing through her chest. 

"No. Neo has frozen a section of the program. Neo is special, unique among the free. He's what we call 'The One.' His destiny was to be the one who could manipulate the Matrix, twist the programming to his own will. He's still learning. When I first met him, he thought I was as full of shit as you did. Look what he can do now." 

"Garrett?" 

Trinity shook her head. "You'll come to understand. We can't free you yet, Celt. We need your help first." 

Gillian nodded mutely. "I'm afraid to leave them." 

"I know. Neo and I have a daughter too, Celt. Her name is Promise. We named her that because we made her a promise when she was born, a promise that mankind would be freed by the time she was grown. Let's take the next step for her sake, and for theirs." Trinity gestured to Gillian's motionless children. 

"Can they be freed?" 

"Yes. It's not too late." 

Gillian let Trinity lead her to the restroom, where three men waited. Neo was huddled in the corner, resting against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. Beads of sweat from intense concentration had formed on his brow and upper lip. Gillian felt a strange and deep empathy for him that she couldn't explain. 

"This is Strike, and he's Tank." Gillian nodded sharply, her breath rising in small clouds and growing more rapid at the sight of whatever the man called Strike held. It looked like an enormous gun, or microscope. He spoke. 

"You've been bugged, Celt, by the Agent. You've carried that bug for quite a few years. It's how Trinity and Neo first found you. More recently the Agent gifted you with another sort of bug, an implant that now resides in your cerebral cortex. I can't remove either bug right now or he'd know right away, otherwise I would. It's the newer implant that I need to access now." 

"Why?" 

"We recently captured one of the Agent programs. We can use your implant to access Agent Smith's CPU and get the data we need to fully understand the mechanics of these programs. Once we have this knowledge, we hope to infect the Agent we've captured with a virus, and send him back to mingle with his friends." 

"A computer virus?" Gillian asked shakily. 

"Yep. If it works, a whole lot of people can be unplugged. Maybe even enough to seriously threaten the power plant and bring the beginning of the end to the freakin' war." 

"That's all we really are to them, Celt. Fuel," added Tank. 

"Batteries. The energy source." 

Gillian reeled, bile rising in her throat like vomit. Everything they'd said echoed Neo's earlier words to her, on that day when she's refused to even listen. 

"She's gonna spew," said Tank. 

"Hold on, Celt." Trinity gripped Gillian's arm steadily. "I told you we could prove it. Strike can use your implant to show you the fields, with Neo's help. Are you ready to see the world as it really is?' 

"Yes," Gillian rasped. "Show me." 

Trinity eased Gillian back into one of the stalls, urging her to sit down on the floor, with the metal divider that served as a wall to rest against. Strike crawled over Gillian and sat down on the toilet. Gillian squeezed her eyes shut forcibly as the device Strike held was brought closer until what seemed the open end rested against the side of her head. It felt strangely warm Even still, she gasped. 

"I'm gonna access the Agent first, then I'll show you the fields." 

"It's gonna feel kinda weird," Tank added. "It won't hurt, though." 

"Except the part when your heart breaks at what you see," thought Trinity. 

Gillian went rigid, her jaw clamped down as the device sprang into life and into action. Instantly she was everywhere at once, and at the same time nowhere. Self-aware, and unaware, intent on only the next task, and its ending, and the next task. 

"Downloading the central database," Strike announced with triumph, his eyes fixed on the display. 

"Hurry," Trinity urged. 

Everything was founded on rules, geometrically fixed by that which could not be bent or altered. The many were the one, and sentience only one line of the equation, all of which led back to the absolute, the pure and untransmutable truth which defined existence both for the predator and the prey. 

"Almost there," said Strike softly. Trinity knelt near Gillian but didn't touch her. This was one of many trials that lay ahead, and the journey was private. Celt was experiencing what it was to be an Agent program in a way no-one had ever done. This, too, could aid them later. 

"I got everything I could access," Strike announced gleefully. "It's a helluva lot, too" 

Gillian's eyes fluttered open. "That's all there is," she whispered. "That's all he is." 

"Take a deep breath now, and let it out slowly," Trinity advised, drawing back from the pain in the other woman's eyes. She couldn't help the surge of pity she felt. As much as she hated the Agents and all they represented, for a very long time they'd meant the opposite to Gillian. It wasn't hard to get behind Celt's eyes for a second. 

Gillian exhaled. She knew the next bit was going to be even worse, and she leaned back, her eyes half closed again. 

"Celt. There's a danger he might have realised what we've just done. There are failsafes." 

"He didn't. You'll have to trust me this time. Is it even possible for you to come to harm here?" 

"We die here, we die there," Tank answered. 

"Jesus." 

"That's right man, get religion." 

"You sound like Cross, Strike." 

"Get on with it!" Trinity snarled, glancing worriedly at Neo. 

"You ready?" 

Gillian nodded numbly, her gaze mercurial. Trinity clasped Gillian's hand between her own, doubt seeping in. How deep was Celt's loyalty to the Agent? What would it take to bend it, to break it? 

Trinity like the rest of them took a leap of faith. "It's not the year 2002, Celt. It's closer to 2202 by our estimation. We took a gambit developing AI. Went a lot further than we should. Became dependent, then over-dependent. Lost our edge. They won. Nuclear winter. We burnt the sky, thinking we'd burn them too. We thought if we put out all the lights they'd go away. They found the light and the power within us more palatable than even the sun. 

We gave birth to them, to our own end. Now we are harvested to give them continued existence, and the Matrix is their remittance; control. Billions of people have lived their lives within the digital illusion, never knowing that's all it was. We're going to show you the fields now, where we're grown. The power plant." Gillian seized Trinity's hand but soon could no longer feel it. 

Before and above her stretched row upon row of what looked like elongated incubators, each containing a human being. She was somehow brought closer to one such tank. Along the length of a boy's spine were attached plugs, connectors of some sort. They looked very much like spark plug covers to Gillian. After a fashion that's exactly what they were, she reckoned. 

Plugs. Black tubing. Down his throat, in the back of his neck. She was moved away, whether by perception or in reality she couldn't tell. The view widened, and the phantasmagoria of it all came into sharp focus; the tanks were attached to towers. She craned her neck; up they went, and down, far below her, and on into infinity it seemed, and amongst them machines worked, tending, hovering, guarding their prey; some massive, teetering on endless spiderlike legs; others small, individual, black and ravenous as specialised hornets ready to mete out their ministrations one by one. 

"Now she's gonna blow," Strike predicted smugly. Gillian retched, Trinity dancing out of the way just in time. Gillian curled up in a ball on the floor. 

"Get me out of here," she pleaded. "Get me out of there. Take me with you." 

"We can't yet. Nothing would alert the Agent to what we're attempting better than you and your kids suddenly gone. I give you my word, all three of you will be freed. I promise." 

Gillian knew what it meant now for Trinity to say that word. 

"They're not really my kids, are they?" 

"They're as much yours as you want them to be," Neo answered. "We have to go, now. One more minute and this place will be crawling with Agents. I have to let go, I can't hold it back much longer." 

"You can do it, Celt, Hang on. Just do what you've always done." 

"He's drugging me-" she said desperately. 

"It's the implant. It's control. Play along. You'll be free soon." 

They were gone before she could say anything more, and she crumpled to the floor again, wrecked, slipping in her own vomit. Amanda found her, though Gillian was unaware of how much time had passed when she did. Maybe none. 

"Mommy?" 

"Yes, baby. I'm here." 

"Are you sick?" 

"I fell and hit my head. I'm alright now." 

"Should we call Daddy?" 

"No, Amanda. I can manage on my own." Gillian gritted her teeth and rose, and went and washed up as best she could in the frigid water of the restroom's spigot, and fetched Garrett. It was getting dark. 

Owen was asleep in his chair when they got in. Gillian was shivering, and nauseous. She showered quickly, and went on with the cooking, and made leaden small talk with the Agent, trying not to choke on the nightmare they'd promised to wake her from. She'd have to endure the dream until they did.   
  


Trinity's footsteps echoed off the deckplates, unyielding beneath her feet. Back and forth she paced until her body was satisfactorily warm and her mind clear. Humankind had once lounged beneath the warmth of the sun. For fun. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to imagine being enveloped in such steady warmth. It was beyond the realm of her experience, even in the Matrix. Promise was warm in Zion, and would never know the falsehood of existence within the system. 

"Cold?" 

She was drawn back into herself, and reached for Neo's hand. "Yeah. So are you." She squeezed his fingers, her eyes warmer than she felt. 

"It's not so bad." 

She nearly smiled. Neo never bitched about anything. The rest of them could take a lesson from him sometimes. He'd been nice and cozy in the Matrix before she and Morpheus and Neo's own destiny had extricated him. Better to be really cold for a purpose than warm only in your head. Better to be unplugged than force-fed reality by design. Still there were moments of weakness, moments they all buried. 

"You missed breakfast." 

"Yeah, right," she said sarcastically. 

"The glop was extra tasteless today. Strike and Tank both made it sound like it was biscuits and gravy." 

"Sounds good. Too bad it wasn't." She sighed inaudibly. "Their excitement is pretty infectious." 

"This could be one of the better weeks for us." 

"I hope you're right." 

He pulled her close. "I miss her, too. It's safer for her there, Trinity." 

"I know." 

"We'll get a message through soon." 

She pulled away, attempting a nod, her eyes distant, focused on something only she could see. "I'm supposed to be on the flight deck," she mumbled. 

"Let's go see what Scribe's up to in Ops first." 

Reluctantly she agreed and followed Neo. She still missed the Nebuchadnezzar, which had sustained too much damage to be salvaged after the last attack, the one in which they'd all been led astray, distracted long enough for the Agent to move. Their near-fatal error had been their position at broadcast depth; the Agent had somehow traveled down the line, ridden the pirate signal they'd been broadcasting to Zion, just another line in the code. They'd been forced to abandon ship, and onboard another Morpheus had given the order to destroy the Neb in an effort to prevent the Agent from gaining full control of Zion's mainframe. Somehow the bastard had escaped them. And now all their fears were focused on whether the Enemy knew Zion's exact position and all its secrets, and whether the last place they could call their own was soon to die. They'd been operating in a near radio-silence mode ever since, sending and receiving only the essentials. Agent Smith's demise was personal to them all now. The Epiphany had been built just for Morpheus and his crew, which had grown steadily during Trinity's time here. 

Scribe was thoughtful, hovering over banks of battered terminals. Rows of monitors before him displayed billions of lines of code in constant transit, this staggering amount of information only partially comprising all that was the Matrix. Scribe was peering at the enumeration of something or someone sadly. Scribe rarely gave in to emotion, and Trinity moved warily closer. She had deep respect for Scribe, who had been recording the history of the Resistance since the beginning of the war, preserving every detail in any way he could for future generations; ensuring that someone would remember the struggle as it really was, regardless of who won. 

Trinity began to feel even more ill at ease. "What is it, Scribe?" 

"We're running out of time. Your friend's implant is malfunctioning. It's also leaking. The seepage will poison her before much longer. She's probably feeling the effects already. Strike and Tank had better move soon." Scribe pushed his gray hair back from his face, and rubbed his eyes. He was one of the oldest of the freedom fighters, and possessed a wealth of experience, and his wisdom was well-trusted. 

Trinity was crestfallen. She never even felt Neo reach for her hand until she brushed it away gruffly. "I promised to free her," Trinity spat. "There has to be something we can do. How long?" 

"A week, at most. Could be a controlled leak. Most likely is. She knows too much. The Agent probably wants her out of the way. He can alter the records to make it look as though she died of an illness. Hepatitis, or some blood-borne pathogen. I'm sure he'll be in mourning for all of a nanosecond." 

"What if we unplugged her now? Could we save her?" 

"I can't say. We've never encountered this before. The implant is of a much higher grade than any we've dealt with in the past. Re-engineered, just like the Agent programs themselves." 

It just got harder all the time. Never easier, never a real end in sight. Trinity's resolve was only heightened by this, yet she wondered why, why they continued to fight for a ravaged planet and a decimated society on the brink of utter extinction. Most of them fostered a secret hope that once they had freedom and the machines were defeated, they could reap what technology remained, combine it with their own and achieve the kind of flight that would take them far from here, away to a fresh start, a future where only the living were sentient. 

Celt was about to become just another deletion. Trinity could well envision the hell Celt had been living in since she'd learnt the truth. She'd be clinging to the hope that it would soon be over. Either way, it would be. A promise was a promise. 

"I'm going to talk to Strike. Neo, could you go and tell Morpheus something? Anything?" 

"No problem. I'll take your station. Go find a way. Just be careful."   
  


All was ordered in the inner core of the Agency. The Agent's colleagues flanked him on every side, awaiting orders. The Agent speculated briefly on his options, analising all the information at his command, correlating the old and the new, multi-tasking in ways the others were incapable of. At the same time he monitored Gillian, who was failing hourly, though still unaware of the gravity of her situation. The Agent would know a personal loss when she was gone. 

It was necessary. Gillian had betrayed him. A sentence must be imposed when humans attempted to move on the level of machines, they must be met with stern opposition and made an example of in the most subtle of ways. No-one second-guessed an Agent. He had briefly considered sparing her. It was not to be, and such weakness on his part would damn all his endeavours thus far and undermine his authority. They were too close to victory now to take unnecessary risks. 

"Give the order," one of the others drawled. 

"A most opportune time," Smith deadpanned in agreement. "Very well. Implement the first phase." Plans within plans. He would launch an offencive of his own. Vengeance would become reality and his reputation for excellence would be unquestioned for all time.   
  


"We're almost ready." 

"Almost isn't good enough, Strike!" 

"God damn it, Trinity, it's not like we can test this shit out whenever we feel like it. Agents aren't exactly standing by waiting to see if they're immune-" 

"I know that! I also know it's got to be Smith." 

"I agree," Tank grunted. "Zion, and now this. He's gotta be stopped. Once he is the others will scatter, and we can use the weakness to buy us some precious time."   
  


"I'm going in. Come and set me up, Tank." 

"I'm going with you," said Scribe, who'd been listening unseen from behind them. "Cross is at Ops. I want to get this woman out. I don't know why, but it matters. Her, and her kids." 

Trinity gestured agreement swiftly and stalked away, Tank scrambling after her, carrying the prize. Strike watched them go, then clambered down the corridor behind them. Trinity lifted an eyebrow when she saw him. 

"Strength in numbers," Strike offered, grinning. "Besides, its my baby." Trinity gave him a stoic smile in return before Tank jacked them all in and they accessed the Construct to gather what they'd need.   
  


Gillian felt faded, as if daily part of her disappeared. She'd like to believe the aching joints and lethargy and fever were only the flu. She knew better now. Some invisible execution was being slowly exacted. No need to question by whom. 

She was allowed to leave the Agency complex at lunch time. What did it matter to them? They knew when she breathed, or slept, or despaired. She wandered seeking fresh air, or the mental representation of it. For a few splendid moments she sat in the simulation of a sunlit square, a bench all to herself, and breathed until she felt almost human. 

She'd finally mastered the ceaseless wondering about the where and when. Had Trinity failed her? Would they come for her? Would it hurt? Would the kids make it out? Would they fight beside Trinity, or hate Gillian for ripping them from the system? 

Wearily she lifted her head. She could hardly bear now to let the children out of her sight, and despised more the time they spent near the Agent, and most of all the automated aneurysm he'd installed in her head, his invisible shock collar, guaranteed to force her into submission, to drain her of all inner will, drop by drop. He held the fuse, and if she said one wrong word he would detonate it. Maybe he already had. 

Her thoughts like her vision grew dull, until someone tapped her on the shoulder. A UPS delivery man. She almost whimpered in terror, until he spoke. His eyes were a cool gray under equally gray, bristling brows. Still Gillian backed away. He could be the Agent, any Agent. 

"Got a delivery here from Trinity." 

Gillian blanched. How could she dare to believe him? 

"Promise," the man added, proffering a bogus clipboard with a phony receipt for her to sign. He laid the box beside her as she signed one word at the bottom. Celt. 

The delivery man pointed at himself. "Scribe," he said softly. He gestured casually at the package. "Enjoy your day, ma'am, and happy birthday." Scribe doffed his hat at her and strode off, and Gillian's gaze drifted after him, taking note of his direction, though she tried desperately to appear as if she wasn't. 

Hastily she rose, picking up the box, the tapping of her heels on the pavement obscured by the hammering of her own heart. She tried not to break into a run as she sought a place to hide. The heels hobbled her, as though she balanced on nails, fearing to be pierced if she fell, the same as she had every minute of all the weeks past. 

She staggered at last into a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. The place was packed, its patrons watching her entrance. The air was heavy with the odours of salt and grease and permeated with soy. Nausea rose in her, roiling up from within, threatening to force her to her knees. She held her head stiffly high. Everyone who watched seemed to know she was sick, and cringed away when she passed as if constructing some unseen barrier against her infection. She leered back at a few of them. 

She begged the manager to let her use the restroom, and he was about to refuse her until he saw the genuine tears that sprang to her eyes. He urged her away from his customers, only too happy to leave her in the ladies room, which was nothing more than an area large enough for one person to turn around in. Gillian locked the door gratefully and sank down onto the closed toilet lid. 

The floor was damp, dotted here and there with saturated masses of toilet paper. Too bad she hadn't time to vomit. 

She held the package between her knees while she clawed at the wrapping and ripped open the box, which came apart easily. It was the sort cakes are delivered in. Happy Birthday. Inside was a cell phone and a gun. As soon as she picked up the phone, it rang. 

"Celt, it's me. Are you okay?" 

"I've been better." 

"I'm sure. I've got bad news. It's the implant. It's leaking. Ready to melt down." 

"I reckoned as much. I haven't had any memory lapses lately. I just feel like shit." 

"Sickness?" 

"Yeah, like the flu. And early arthritis." 

"It's going to get worse." 

That was the moment Gillian knew, the moment it was all as crystal clear as if she'd lived her entire life for this one realisation. It was the one true revelation she'd ever had that hadn't been generated by the Matrix. Maybe this was what they'd used to call fate. Or acceptance. 

"No, Trinity. It isn't going to get worse. Didn't Scribe tell you? It's my birthday. By choice. Someone's got to make it out, someone's got to live. Please, let it be my children. Tell them I love them. Tell them to remember. I know what I'm meant to do. Let me do it." 

"Celt, if we can get you to the Epiphany-" 

"I've just gotten there now, Trinity. You'll find freedom by your epiphany, as will I. It's too late. I want him to see it done to him before he can do it to me. I want him to die. All of them, Trinity. Shut the whole fucking works down if you can, and take my kids to the Promised Land." 

Trinity's reply was strangled. "Are you sure?" 

"Dead sure. I promise." 

"He's coming, Celt." 

"I know." 

"Get out of there. Meet us at the old arena on Warren. Two blocks south. Strike's already there. The gun fires an electro-magnetic pulse. It can only be used once. Make it count. You'll know when. Run like hell and don't look back." 

Gillian kicked the discarded brown wrapping out from underfoot and took off, the gun tucked precariously inside her jacket. She felt free in a way she hadn't in a very long time. Maybe for the first time ever. There was no illness now, only purpose. 


	4. Chapter Four

Tank homed in on the boy's location in the fields. The search had been frantic but had paid off; the girl was very near him. It seemed meant to be. His heart went out to the woman who had for so long known herself to be the mother of these children. Maybe they'd get her out too, in spite of it all. 

Angel and Cross were waiting when the boy was brought aboard, and the girl after him. The boy struggled fiercely. Both fell quickly under the effects of sedation, which would be a necessity for a large part of their rehabilitation. The young were far easier to bring back; muscle morbidity and slowed mental reflexes could be undone. For now, they would know only peace. 

"Two new warriors," said Angel with grim pride. 

"Shit!" exclaimed Cross. The proximity alarm had begun to sound. "What the fuck?" 

"We're under attack," Morpheus announced over the comm. "Vindicators." 

The human fleet had massed in anticipation of the events to come, and now it seemed the enemy had outmanuvered them once again. They'd never gone up against Vindicators before. They'd only just learnt of their existence from the most recent intelligence they'd had from Zion. 

"Thought those weren't online yet," said Angel venomously. 

"Guess they were in a hurry. Angel, stay here with these two. Come on, Cross." They clambered up the ladders to the flight deck. 

"Look at them," said Tank, exhaling mightily at all he saw in the main viewer. Sentinels had been designed for search and destroy. These were just...destroy. 

"They look like dragons," Cross muttered dreamily. "Ever read about those, Morpheus?" 

"Yes." 

"How long?" 

"Three minutes. Probably less." 

"EMP charging." 

"Think it'll do any good?" 

"They're piloted. By Agents." 

"Shee-yit. Maybe the EMP will disable them." 

"They'll have anticipated that. We'll have to hit them together, three or four of ours for every one of theirs. Upload the order, Tank." 

"Trinity and Strike? Scribe?" 

"They'll have to hang on." 

Tank's fingers danced quicksilver over the keypad. "Shit," he murmured. 

Morpheus did not turn his nebulous gaze from the display. "What is it now?" he uttered in a nearly voiceless manner. 

"Neo jacked in less than a minute ago. Going after them." 

"We need him here. Bring him back. Pull him out before we have to fire." 

Tank felt the first salvo hit the Epiphany before he could settle at Ops, the deck lurching beneath him. A power conduit ruptured from above and came whistling down, and he dove from the chair. The smell of fried circuits filled the air. He scrambled for the chair, holding on, seeking a fix on Neo's location. 

Neo wasn't answering his call.   
  


Smith strode after Gillian methodically, his movements precise. He hadn't yet drawn his weapon. There was no hurry. He was in no danger of losing her; escape for her was simply not an option any longer, nor would it be for Trinity and her companions. Several other Agents were also closing in from other directions. They'd never be recognised as such until it was too late. 

Smith, however, made no attempt to conceal himself, his intellect sublimated by the challenge of the pursuit. He wanted Gillian to stumble in terror as she was now, fleeing him; wanted any who saw to know what it meant to circumvent the Agency, and him. Him, most of all, and his will to accomplish and grow beyond the set limits of his potential. 

Yet there was a surprising lack of completion in knowing what was to come. Gillian's absence would be...noticed. 

No. She had only been a convenient prop, a part of the backdrop that perpetuated the necessity of the program. One day there would be no need for the Matrix; they would purge humanity from the system entirely, keep them contained solely in the power generation units, as they were meant to be, and whatever inner life they sought would be erased, eradicated before it began. Only then would true dominion be a reality. 

What a grave error it had been to construct the pseudo-world of the Matrix to begin with. It had only prolonged the inevitable, and given the few who knew the truth their chance to escape, to fight back, to seek shelter in Zion, a doomed and worthless haven, a tiny port in an unending storm bent on their ruin. What an astounding lack of judgment the escapees continued to foster. What chance did they think they had, creeping through the subterranean landscape, through the toxic caverns that had once carried their own waste? 

He shouldered past such waste now, the human refuse now prowling this sector of the system. He was impregnable behind dark glasses, untouchable by the contagion all around him. He chuckled smugly when Gillian fell again, struggling to her feet once more, abandoning her shoes in hopes of gaining speed. He bore down on her, merciless to any who strayed across his chosen path. Some vain, pathetic hope that she would be saved somehow drove Gillian on. They were finally within easy reach now. Most of them. 

Gone were the days when communication with the mainframe required the use of an earpiece; the link was now flawlessly hidden, unseen, and he requested information. The other Agents were moving into position. The attack on the Resistance far below was now well underway. Everything was proceeding according to plan. The only real obstacle was his tenuous link with Gillian's implant. His sabotage had weakened it. Manipulating the system was far easier, and by his command her progress was impeded by all that he willed before her. He smiled when the wail of sirens drew closer and Gillian ahead of him ran stiffly, knowing they came for her.   
  


Gillian's feet pounded the sidewalk, each blow jarring her as her legs worked mechanically until she felt she ran on someone else's feet entirely, as if her own had been disconnectd, replaced. The poison must be spreading more rapidly from the exertion and the relentless outpouring of adrenaline. 

She couldn't look back now. He'd be right there. She had to make it. She couldn't do it alone. People gaped at her as she passed, with pity and with disgust. Some jumped out of her way. There came a subtle shift, and she began running into one person after another, and she knew it was intentional, knew he'd willed it. 

"Stop her!" she heard the Agent call from far too close behind. "She's wanted for a very serious criminal act." 

From the doorway of a pharmacy a man heeded the call and stepped out to do his civic duty, and Gillian barreled into him. He grabbed her by the wrists, intent on holding her until the Agent now sprinting toward them could catch up. 

Gillian sank her teeth into the man's wrists, and brought her knee up hard into his groin, and his grip on her was lost and he sank to the pavement. Warren boulevard crossed just ahead. She could see the entrance to the arena now. She gained new energy from somewhere, and took off, just out of the Agent's reach. 

At first she thought her would-be captor had bitten her back in retaliation, and she screamed. She had processed the sound a second too late. The Agent had fired a round into her leg. The area began to clear like magic then, and everyone who'd seemed bent on hampering her now seemed to vanish, giving the Agent a clear field of fire. 

A police care came screaming around the corner, heading straight for her, and her eyes burned with tears, her breathing wracked. She ran like she'd never run before, dragging herself on, propelled forward inch by inch it seemed, willing herself to watch the lines in the sidewalk passing beneath her. They were going by, she was moving, he hadn't shot her yet. Every nerve waited for what would surely come, this time in the back of her head. If she straightened and turned, she'd look down the barrel of his gun, and those of the cops waiting for the order to fire on her. 

He was baiting her, allowing her to lead him to them, otherwise she'd be dead already. She almost smiled. By pressing her arm against her side she could feel the sharp, cold weight of the gun Strike had given her. Deliverance. 

"Come on then, you bastard," she croaked. "Come on." She knew he heard her, and the clicking of his heels on the pavement behind confirmed it. The lines beneath her feet disappeared, and the movement of the air was somehow different, lighter. Another of his deceptions? Another memory lapse inflicted by him? Had she really made it this far? There was only one way she could have done it. "Neo," she whispered. 

She stood as straight as she could on the one leg she could still feel, the agony in the other having given way to a dreamy sort of insistence that it was still partially there. She let her gaze travel around the arena. How many people had sat in those tired looking chairs, taking in events that had never occurred? 

"It's over, Gillian," the Agent said in a very satisfied way from right behind her. 

"Yes, I know," she replied with equally grim satisfaction, and turned to face him at last, searching his face for any sign of what to do next. She raised her empty hands in front of her to signify defeat, the wound in her leg making itself felt gravely. It wasn't real. Why should it deter her? 

His gun was trained on her forehead. Someone was moving behind the Agent, moving between the rows of chairs. Some kind of maintenance worker. He glanced obliquely at Gillian just long enough for her to see his eyes, which she recognised in an instant. How had he done it? 

She couldn't allow herself to be drawn away from the Agent, and was appalled at the defeated figure reflected in the opaque lenses behind which the Agent hid all that he truly was. She had to let go now. 

"I cared for you," she said, so bitterly that she was shocked at her own words. Her gaze pried at him for some response, some affirmation of all the time and emotion she had wasted on him. She expected none, and got none. 

"Why don't you just shoot me? What are you waiting for?" 

"Them." 

"They're not coming." 

"They're here. Draw them out, Gillian, and I'll let you live," he taunted. "Go on. I dare you." 

"Is there some trouble here?" the maintenance man said from the main aisle. "Should I call the police?" 

"They're already waiting for her," the Agent announced flatly without moving his head. The position of the gun he held did not waver. "Along with several of my associates." 

"Not yet," Gillian thought. She inched closer to him, reaching for his hand. 

"I give up. Take me into custody, or kill me outright. I know they can't save me. I know you never gave a damn about me. I know none of this is real, so what difference does it make? I'm already dead. Won't you at least say good-bye? Give me something, before I'm gone forever. At least let me close my eyes." 

She thought the barrel of the gun was lowered a fraction of an inch. She must be imagining it. He never faltered. He wanted her to hope for something, someone; wanted them to answer her silent call. She still gripped his hand. Why hadn't he pushed her away? 

"Don't let go," she heard Neo say, not from without, but from within. She felt the beginnings of a smile. It began to flow freely then, insidious, invisible, from her, to him. Of course. They'd given her the virus that cold afternoon in the park. It had been there all along, waiting. And all that the Agent had placed within her head, all that he'd forced upon her would now be his undoing. Only Neo could tell her how to activate it, and he did. The implant was damaged. Would it be enough? 

Gunfire erupted from the stands above as one of the other Agents uncovered Trinity's position, and the police swarmed in, ready for their orders but unwilling to step over the line of jurisdiction where Agents were concerned. They knew better, from experience. Gillian stood firm, unmoving, knowing she must not let go until it was done. The kids might be free by now. From within, where none could see, she let go profoundly; of him, and her children, and all that she had known to be life, and she knew without a doubt that new life would come, one way or another, and freedom. She moved even closer when Neo signalled with his eyes, bringing her lips to the Agent's ear. "I love you," she whispered. 

Tank cursed as they took another barrage, echoing all that Morpheus left unsaid. The Epiphany was one tough bitch, but they'd never anticipated an assault like this one. The outer hull was beginning to buckle under the constant hammering, and morale was beginning to shatter. Tank wondered which was the bigger threat. 

Morpheus was unseated as they were assailed by bolts of pure white energy licking like flames against the hull. The small armada sent from Zion was being decimated, and two of the four ships currently in a defencive posture around the Epiphany were damaged beyond hope, foundering, running on hope alone. 

"Come on, Neo," Tank mumbled solemnly on his way back up to the main deck. 

A chevron of enemy vessels was approaching in anticipation of the final assault. Though the enemy was outnumbered the Resistance was outgunned. The EMP couldn't be recharged quickly enough to do any real damage and stem the tide long enough for them to retreat. 

"They're sending Sentinels in behind," Cross said softly. 

Clearly the Sentinel's intent was to destroy what remained, freeing the newer crafts, giving the Agents the opportunity to access the broadcast to Zion, and by it enter the last stronghold. Morpheus contacted all the other ships he could reach on their covert frequency. "Cut all contact with Zion. It's a trap. They'll only use the signal to access the mainframe. It can't end here. We may lose the battle, but the war is far from over." His orders were received and accepted in the silence that came after, the calm before what could likely be one of the last storms. 

For the Epiphany, it would be. "Let's do some real damage before they claim victory," Morpheus cried. "Let's strike at something they value. Strike's party favour. The one we've been saving for a special occasion." 

"That might end it for everyone," Tank mused. 

"Let's do it anyway," said Cross. 

Tank reached for Morpheus' hand. "It's been an honour, sir." 

"And for me." Their handshake was brief but laden with emotion. 

"What you're suggesting...it's too well defended," Strike put in. 

"Not if Neo and Trinity and Strike can get it done in time. They've always trusted me. Now's my chance to return that trust. Send an encrypted message to the other ships of our intent. We'll need their cover." 

It didn't matter now if the Agents decoded the message. They'd never believe it anyway.   
  


Strike sidled up to Trinity after they'd dispatched the Agent attacking her. The respite would only be temporary, and they bounded closer to Neo to offer him cover and hunkered down to watch. 

"It's too perfect. Look. The Agent can't seem to fire on her," Strike guffawed with no small measure of pride. 

"Must be true love," Trinity sneered. "He's lost control of the implant." 

"And her." 

"I hope." 

"Doubting whether she can really let go?" 

Trinity didn't answer for a few seconds. "Think he knows what he's got yet?" 

"Not yet. She just whispered the magic words in his ear. Activation sequence. Smart girl. He'll have a window of maybe thirty seconds in which he can take action if the degradation of her implant is at less than fifty percent." 

"Educated guess?" 

"It ain't." 

"Why hasn't she let go?" Trinity asked herself out loud. 

"That's an old loyalty she's fighting, and a strong one. Won't be easy. Too old a mind to free completely. Still she won't let us down. She's already come through." 

"Neo, look out!" Trinity shrieked. One of the uniformed cops was moving steadily closer to where Neo stood, all his efforts fixed on keeping under control all that was before him. Neo raised a hand without turning his attention from the Agent, and the cop was felled and disarmed, and curled impotently on the cracked cement near Neo's feet. His fellow officers made no attempt to assist him.   
  


Neo moved into action then, but even he couldn't have anticipated what happened next. He heard what Celt had whispered to the Agent, knew it to be the activation code he himself had given her. Yet what he heard and felt was honest emotion, spoken from a heart that had been pierced clean through by the truth yet still knew what those words meant in spite of it. Neo knew that she meant what she said on many levels, even though she was well aware of all that would occur after she spoke. Though a shadow seemed to fall as he questioned her real motivation, it was coloured by pity for the trap Celt now found herself in. 

Neo was ready, ready to attempt to nullify what he anticipated would be the Agent's next logical move. Celt moved before Neo could, and when the Agent had processed exactly what had been done to him, he moved on Gillian, and into her, an unwilling host. Now they would have to kill her to get to him. 

"Analise this," said Gillian, and with a steady hand drew the gun Strike had given her and raised the barrel, laying it against her temple. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she pulled the trigger. Neo grimaced at the way he had questioned her loyalty. There was no time to reflect. 

The Agent was driven immediately from Gillian and forced back into it's true form. Gillian crumpled, fell, lay inert. Neo had no time to discern whether she still lived. "Trinity!" he called. She'd know what to do. There was no danger from the Agent now. He was slowly being shut down, scrambled internally. There were two other Agents here, waiting for this one's orders. Sooner or later he'd have to communicate with them. Then they'd know whether they'd won or lost.   
  


The Agent knew he was contaminated, and immediately presumed all non-essentials were going offline in an effort to purge the virus before one of the others initiated contact. He froze. 

It was too late. One offered assistance, queried his central processor regarding his status, wondering at his uncharacteristic acquiescence. 

"Kill them. Kill them all," he replied acidly, mustering what reason remained, turning on Gillian resolutely, intent on doing what he should have done long before now. The old man who had sought to interfere answered his cell phone and promptly held it next to Gillian's ear, and she was gone, dead or alive, she was gone. The man had somehow accessed Gillian's implant and saved himself by assuming the guise of an Agent. An outrageous deception. One that Smith should have anticipated. 

"Mister Anderson, I presume?" The Agent asked viciously, control eroding far faster than he knew. 

"Neo," the old man corrected, rising and offering the cell phone to Smith. "Need to call anyone for help? It's toll free. Be my guest. You don't look too good. I hear there's a virus going around. Maybe you should sit down for a while." Neo's leg shot out before the Agent's degrading reflexes could formulate a reaction and he drove his foot hard into the Agent's chest, forcing him to the ground. The virus was fully actuated. There was nothing the Agent could do now. Neo signalled to the others, and when they were in view, gestured to the cell phone in his hand. 

"You're under arrest!" called one of the uniformed officers, emboldened now that the Agent was down. 

"Okay," Neo answered affably. "Come and cuff me." 

Before the officer could take two steps, the old man who was now young again answered his phone once more, and he and the two others were gone. 


	5. Chapter Five

Communications with Zion resumed at last, and Trinity took what seemed her first deep breath in months. Promise was safe. Safe. They'd never see her again, not if they succeeded in what they were about to do. 

The Agent-piloted crafts were now idling harmlessly, thanks to the virus. The Sentinels were in retreat, but for how long? What would they send in next? The Resistance was wasting no time in commandeering as many of the new Enemy fighters as they could, and capturing the Agents aboard them. They were taking booty for the first time ever. There was a lot to be learnt in the days to come, if they made it, a lot to be used against the Enemy. 

Many more of their own were being taken away, some in pieces. The Epiphany had taken a beating but was still in the game. The endgame. The fleet began to pull back at Morpheus' order.   
  


Several decks below, Scribe stood in a sort of vigil next to Celt. Neo and Tank had gotten her out. If she was to die, she'd die free now, and so would her kids. 

"What are her chances?" Scribe asked Angel. 

"50-50. Same as the rest of us. The EMP she discharged against herself voided the implant, but she's still going to have to rid her system of the silicone and the other toxins. I'll put her on dialysis during her rehab." 

"Save her," Strike said gently. "For my sake." 

"You really care about her, don't you?" 

"Yeah. She's been through some heavy duty shit. She didn't bail on us. I want her to make it so I can tell her just what that means personally." 

Angel smiled somberly. "I'll do my best," she replied, and left Scribe alone with Celt for a while, studying him a moment before departing. Her smile widened at the tender way he laid his hand over Celt's, as if he felt his touch could cure all that ailed her if he could somehow reach her where she was now. Hell, maybe he could. Angel found herself hoping that the woman would make it. Scribe had fought longer than most, and had never given an inch. He had something real for this woman, and she'd be lucky to receive it, once she recognised it for what it was. The way back would be long for Celt, after all the years enmeshed with the worst the Matrix had to offer. 

"There's another ship coming in," Strike called. "One of ours." He was glad to be back aboard, back where he belonged. They had nearly reached their final destination. 

"The Sentinels?" 

"In full retreat, sir." 

"Communication incoming. It's Phoenix, sir." 

Morpheus spoke first. "Hello, old friend. Guess you heard what we're about to do. We'll need your help getting the Unplugged out before the strike." 

"The fleet is on the way. ETA, three minutes. You got the last part in reverse. I'm going in. You mean far too much to be sacrificed, Morpheus. You, and the One. I'm here because the Oracle told me I would be. Can't go against her when she lays it down, bro. Carved in stone. I'm tired, Morph. I'll rise from the ashes. Count on it. I've already offloaded my crew. It's just me. Give me the package and I'll deliver it. I've still got family in there. This is for them." 

A dark and palpable tension settled like smoke over them all, and Morpheus was still. "We won't have much more time before they purge the virus and come back online," said Trinity. 

Strike made a buzzing sound, indicating that Trinity had guessed wrong. "All respectable viruses replicate themselves, Trin. In this case, each cycle is better than the last. Didn't want 'em to get bored." 

Morpheus laughed at the irony. He had once been told under heavy duress that humanity was on a comparative scale to a virus. There was no cure for that one any more than there was for this. For now, both were here to stay. 

"Phoenix-" 

"Time's wastin', Morpheus. I've made the decision. Offer's on the table." 

Morpheus steepled his fingers, deep in thought. "Strike, Tank. Let's do what the man asked." 

"Yes, sir!" Tank cried jubilantly.   
  


The hours ahead were grueling, and the entire fleet moved as one, with one purpose, the damaged beside the whole, until no more could be brought aboard and the reserves from Zion came to take all they could. By the end of the mission the Unplugged numbered near 100,000. 

The last phase belonged to Phoenix, and he was heedless of all that was still online where he was going. By the splitting of an atom, millions in the fields were doomed, but those who had been saved would carry the legacy of the lost. The cost to a world already scarred beyond measure they could not count, and the fallout would be more than what would manifest in the physical sense. Whether they had done themselves in by detonating a one-megaton warhead in the power plant, no-one could say. It was a chance they were willing to take as a species, and they did.   
  


Zion -- Five Months Later   
  


Turmoil was as near as hope now, as real as the togetherness that bound them all to each other, both the veterans of the Matrix and those newly brought back from the fields. In the beginning, every available space had been annexed for rehab, and the rows of stretchers and the prostrate forms of those who waiting for life to begin often eerily resembled the fields from whence they had been saved. Their progress was slow and steady. 

The progress of the Enemy mirrored their own, though in Zion none lost heart at the rebuilding occurring above. It was expected. Too much had been gained to allow any weakness now. 

Strike was a man possessed, in his element. Together with the finest minds in Zion, he re-engineered the Agents they had captured, using the one they had originally taken as their prototype, refining the changes they made, installing, recreating. The Enemy's renaissance would be short-lived when it began. The Resistance had Agents of their own now, and when the time came, they'd be unleashed into the system one by one, and the information would flow, and all that the Enemy wished to keep hidden would be available at last. Soon. Very soon. 

Gillian lingered aboard the Epiphany. Though it was docked, and most of it's crew in Zion, she found herself unwilling to disembark that day, and stayed behind. The kids were with Trinity and her daughter. They were safe. They were adjusting, though there were moments when the new life, the real life thrust upon them made itself felt clearly in their anger, and their confusion, and Gillian was the cause of it all as far as they could see. It was Promise, Trinity and Neo's child, who seemed most able to get through to Garrett and Amanda. They shunned Gillian much of the time, blamed her for all that had come to light regarding the one they'd known as their father, until Gillian felt closed off from the past, from them, from everything but the training she'd undertaken and the time she spent with Scribe. 

He had some strange affinity for her that she couldn't grasp, and felt unworthy of. He was the kindest person she'd ever known, and the toughest, and she felt drawn to him, even though his kindness was the very thing which made her feel as if she'd finally crack and turn to dust and be swept away like flotsam by all the events unfolding around them all. 

Scribe was monitoring what was left of the Matrix. The Enemy had regained only 30 percent of power, still the program ran, and she could only guess at what they deemed most necessary, at what they devoted their remaining resources to continuing. Some illusions must matter more than others. 

She put her hand on his shoulder to tell him she was there. He didn't seem to mind her silences. Maybe he knew there wasn't much left, and what still existed was too tightly contained to ever see the light. Scribe knew better, but let Celt live it out at her own pace. It was coming. He'd be there when it did. Then she'd realise the connection between them. 

He watched her eyes descend, scanning the lines of code, the pathways of the past. 

"Scribe," she asked softly. "What happened to him? Where is he now?" 

Though the question hurt, Scribe had known it was coming for a long time. "Still out there, Celt. On the mend, and on the move." 

She looked away, withdrew. He followed her with his eyes. She was just a few inches past bald. Scrawny. Pale. Haggard. Beautiful. He loved her. 

When she turned back, she finally saw it, and the dam burst as he'd known it would, and he held her while she wept, until she was cleansed. 

"Now you're really free," he whispered.   
  


Epilogue   
  


In the months that followed, the Resistance held close to Zion, and a memorial was held for Phoenix when all who had been unplugged could pay their respects to the one who had sacrificed himself for them, alongside those who had known and fought with him. 

Lives went on, both those just begun and those that had struggled long. They waited; waited to see what effect their moment of truth had wrought, waited for word from the Oracle, who still lived. From their Agents now moving through the system, they gained intelligence daily, and knew of the Enemy's continued rebuilding and of all else they presumed in their arrogance would never be uncovered. Though the Resistance had dealt them a near-fatal blow, the Enemy was resilient, having inherited the same will for self-preservation as was instilled in the race that had created them. 

The balance of power had shifted in favour of the Resistance, and they were wasting no time in training the troops and learning the secrets and making ready for the next conflict. Perhaps the next battle would be the last, for them, or for the Enemy. Either way, it was surely coming.   
  



End file.
